Matches
by The Unmarked Trail
Summary: Jason and Chris find out the hard way that if you play with fire... burning is inevitable.
1. Chapter 1

"It's YOU!" And his response was that smile, the grin of a starving man suddenly given a juicy steak, a once-upon-a-time-puppy, now bull mastiff presented with a bitch to mount. She shuddered violently. He looked like he wanted to both devour and mount her. And he had the power to do it, too. There was nowhere left to run. Even if she sprinted past him while he lifted himself out of that noose, where could she go? The van was in the clutches of the demon bridge with its broken boards, and the lodge had shattered windows that he would only leap back through in yet another pursuit.

Then, it would be death - or much worse - in her own bedroom, or that closet with the corpse of her precious dead friend Debbie. Better to just let it end out here, in the barn that had never seen a horse.

It was fitting, in a way. How many times had she wondered if things could have been better between her and her parents if they had only invested more time in family life, gotten a horse or two so that they could all go for a gallop along forest trails truly enjoy the property, and life itself?

But instead of fresh air and happy times, her father had not done what he promised to do,and indeed had even stopped promising, trading summer memories with his wife and daughter for more hours at the company, while her mother had thrown herself headlong into the society parties and attempts to beautify the place through professional landscapers so that they could get into Better Homes and Garden, thereby impressing the cocktail party crowd, which at the end of the day, was all that mattered to the both of them. So yes, fitting it should end here, in this place of broken dreams.

But even as she contemplating just giving up, she cringed inwardly at the thought of the beastly mockery of a man that struggled even now against the cord wrapped around his neck, and knew that there were things worse than death. That petrifying travesty of what could only be a smile spelled it out for her without the need for words. The very image had been enough to telegraph that she wouldn't experience a clean death at this monster's hands, there would be no merciful twist of the neck, no gory but quick slice of the throat. No, it was obvious that was not what his intentions were.

Strangely enough, as okay as she was at the moment with a quick, clean, no nonsense ending that would release her from the horrors of this day along with the various disappointments in life, it was clear that this creature was not going to be a dear and wipe the slate of her memory clean in death, or at least not before scribbling his own horrors there first. And that she could not deal with.

He struggled with the rope binding him about his grotesquely thick neck, and Chris found herself cursing the gods that had not seen fit to leave him to twist and writhe against the cord in his mother's womb and snuff out this obscenity before he ever drew breath.

But that hadn't happened, this man had been born and gone on to haunt her woods, the place where she was supposed to have happy times. This savage interloper had robbed her of the calm, level headed attitude that she had cherished since childhood. She was too much of a wreck to even be with Rick - oh God, poor, sweet Rick, who this creature had thrown through the window like a rag doll, like a toy pitched away by a hateful child in the grips of a temper tantrum. Rick and all her friends were lying back at the lodge like meat on the floor of a crude slaughter house, her own home turned into a lair of blood, gore and entrails. The police who arrived later would have to wipe their feet before leaving, lest they track it back to their own clean, innocent homes that had never

seen the carnage that had taken place here.

Now the man was free of the noose she had been so proud of moments before, dropping down to the ground with the mask mercifully covering that hideous face. He stooped a bit to recover his wicked blade, then advanced upon her yet again. She cowered against a stall, waiting for the end. But like an audible punctuation mark at the end of a sad sentence, the door to the supply shed burst open and a man appeared, rushing forth and shouting obscenities, although nothing issuing from his mouth could have been as blasphemous as the creature before her.

He lashed out and grabbed the monster from behind, apparently as insane as she felt herself becoming. The man spun around wildly, the sword coming down on the offending arm with a loud and meaty THWACK! She watched the man shriek and gape at his stump, which spurted blood onto the hay. Then the monster gave a little kick and knocked the man's legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground. He then rained blows upon him, chopping off the other arm, then going to work on the legs. Chris couldn't contain her own shrieks anymore, mainly because she couldn't make her eyes obey and stop watching the grisly execution.

And that, tempered with the fact that whatever he had in store for her after he'd finished with this man was sure to be a thousand times worse was what gave her the needed boost of adrenaline to dash out of the barn, shrieking uncontrollably. Chris's feet flew under they're own command, she didn't know where she was running, only that it was away from the atrocity back in the barn. In her panic, she turned back, much like Lot's wife only to see that thing, sporting a fresh coating of blood as he shambled out of the barn hot on her heels. Her throat burned raw as her sneakers pounded the ground below, and them mercifully the dock came into view ahead of her.

As she drew closer, she spotted something shiny laying out on the sun warped boards. Forcing her exhausted body to make those last few yards was unbearable, but she somehow made it. She collapsed at the dock, groping for the sharp salvation before her.

Just in time, as well, for the blood soaked figure had only just stepped onto the dry, splintery wood, his boots thudding heavily against the boards. It took every last ounce of her being to wrestle the speargun up and point in in his direction.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Jason merely stood at the junction of dock in land like the cat that had cornered the proverbial canary, and Chris, well... it took everything she had just to level the weapon at her tormenter and lift a shaking hand to the trigger. As she did, the monster lifted his mask again, almost as though he were giving her a prime head expression was different this time, not the gleeful grin but more of a hawk watching its prey. Narrow eyes, mouth tight but slightly pulled open by the deformed lips.

He took a step towards her, and she found herself retreating to the very edge of the dock. She could find at least temporary salvation in the water, even if he were a marathon swimmer, but damn it, her mind might be a spool of thread unravelling at a frightening clip, but it was telling her one thing: FIGHT.

Her own mouth tightening in grim determination, Chris Higgins prepared to squeeze the trigger on this instrument of death, the very weapon he father bought when he got it into his head to snorkel-dive for fish in the lake. But before she could shoot the bolt into the monster's eye socket, the water erupted behind her.


	2. Chapter 2

It rose unbidden from the slimy depths, draped in rotting lake plants, smelling of death, fish and somehow, judgement. Chris was too horrified to do anything other than gape at this newest assault on her extremely weak grasp on reality as the eyeless sockets somehow seemed to peer into her very soul somehow, and chill her to the very bone. Chris's innards churned as she fought to turn away from this fetid harbinger of insanity, the sick stench of it overwhelming her to the point it was all she could do to fight the nausea. And even though her brain screeched and railed with it's very last iota of reason, Chris could not bring her self to look away.

It felt almost as if this slick, algae draped crone could see into the furthest corners of her mind, that it could probe memories even Chris herself had long since buried. Chris stood transfixed even as the abomination reached for her with skeletal arms that still boasted a few stubborn scraps of flesh clinging to their bony moorings with the tenacity of a barnacle. Chris's wide eyes remained locked with the lady of the lake as the flailing of her mind quieted and the urge to break and run deserted her. For Chris, in her last moments of lucidity, understood exactly what this soggy nightmare could see behind her glazing eyes. And at that moment, whatever shred of sanity Chris had managed to cling to throughout this entire ordeal finally snapped even as the denizen of the deep pried loose her deepest, darkest moment and set it free like a long forgotten piece of flotsam that had finally bobbed to the surface to share it's secrets.

And at that moment, the lake dwelling nightmare reached out and thrust the girl who had finally ceased screaming towards the mountain of scarred, gnarled flesh that now stood only a few feet away, watching the scene play out before him with a mixture of fascination and dread. For Jason knew exactly what his mother had uncovered in this girl's mind and now the part he that had played in it was laid equally as bare. Chris's back collided against his chest, but he grunted more from what he himself had seen in his mother's eyes rather than the impact. And then as quickly as she had surfaced, Pamela Voorhees receded back into the waters, satisfied that her point had been made, and that all to soon Jason would understand it himself. After all, sometimes experience was the only true teacher in life, and a mother's concerned words could only go so far. Sometimes, one had to play with matches to truly understand the pain of the flame.

Well, he could feel the heat from the flames now, just like those times he tried to start fires at the camp cabins and found himself fleeing from infernos. Strange how he had mastered the art of the fireplace by the time he began sneaking nights at the abandoned Higgins Haven, for if he had not, the place would have been eaten alive and this current moment would not be happening. Chris was in his arms, glazed eyes now closed and rolling a bit behind the lids, the girl locked in a miserable fever dream.

HE was the fever dream. He and Mother. The two of them had stricken her into a fifth dimension, like those old Twilight Zone episodes he used to watch. The show had come on after his death in the lake, but he had caught a broadcast of it once on an ancient TV set at Camp Crystal in the years after. Though he barely understood the announcer or characters in the drama, one thing was clear. There were some places you shouldn't go, some doors best left unopened.

How does it feel to be behind the door, son? A taunting voice just then, but not Mother's. She had given him the girl just now, and her mangled face had a sour look, but she would never taunt him. No, this voice belonged Elias, and Barry, and the other boys at camp, the randy ones who stole underwear from the girls' cabin as they showered, the ones who were made even more vile by their cracked and changing voices, puberty turning them even more monstrous than his mercifully silent, deformed features.

You think any of them are going to ever be interested in YOU? Your face looks like a meal of roadkill, like something that belongs on the side of the road, or in the ditch.

One of them had even dangled some of the female undergarments in his face, telling him to get a good whiff, as it would be the only time for such a pleasure. Now he had something so much better than what those creatures had stolen, but he was a worse thief. Chris was moaning now, writhing in his needed to DO something, to get off this blasted dock.

Holding Chris Higgins in his arms, Jason Voorhees realized something, much to his horror. The shame he had just felt burning in his cheeks seemed to have drowned with Mother. It was down at the bottom of Crystal Lake, glowing like the dying lights of a newly sunken ship. Now the burning was lower, the fire hotter, reminding him of frustrated nights in the shack, nights when he had taken up an axe and chopped old docks to kindling in a rage, when his lust had compelled him to wander aimlessly, on the prowl not for venison or rabbit but gym-toned backsides, sweetly pumping beneath tight cotton shorts as long, shapely legs strode swiftly through the woods, on their way to a secluded shore. He found that on certain nights out hunting he fantasized about certain body parts; shorts pulled down until two cheeks popped out, jiggling in the moonlight as the girl stood on one foot trying to get them all the way off, wobbling and sometimes landing on her ass in the dirt, giggling madly at her predicament, high on the booze they all drank and her own lusty desires.

Then she would pick herself up, brush the dirt from her bare buns, and strip off the final bit of clothing, her socks, pink for some reason in his fantasies, all the time pink. The panties were virginal, wedding dress white, but the socks were pink. Once the clothing was in a neat pile - horrid time to touch upon Mother's cleanliness is next to Godliness creed, and he pushed thoughts of it away like a swarm of angry hornets closing in - the girl ran into the water, splashing happily. Jason had these fantasies and he was having them now, only in the fantasies, a boy or a man always came along to join her, prancing into the dream from out of nowhere, flaunting his own nudity as Jason hid behind a tree. Then the fantasies turned bloody, and Jason waited for them to tire of slick, wet fondling and head back to the beach for proper lovemaking. Only on the beach, a Goliath waited.

Jason always killed the man first, chopping him down like a sapling, and throwing his pieces onto his own pile of girl he saved for last, watching with delight as she scurried over to her own pile, trying to use the tiny shorts and socks as a shield. He was very glad he had never come across a scene like that, for he didn't know how far he would go. Even with the hardbody slut from Packanack, the dark haired, smoldering punk had appeared before Jason could do anything like what he did in those fantasies. He had instead shaped and molded his rage into simple throat slittings and stabbings incredibly almost grateful that the joker asshole had decided on the prank, so that Jason could remind himself yet again that the menu featuring killing as a main course, and hiding the occasional victim as a side dish. The other thing, the thing which was Unspeakable and which made him glad he was now a mute, was not to be consumed. Let that part of him starve, anyway. It wasn't worthy of Mother's son.

But still, just because he hated that part of him, the part that had been alive even before his drowning, when he actually felt ready to protect the honor of strange girls who fell victim to panty raids orchestrated by thugs with puberty-cracked voices, that didn't mean it was ever going away. And now, now he had this girl Chris in his arms again, just like before, when he stumbled upon her weeping in the wet, storm tossed woods. Chris with her rich, warm body, tight designer jeans replacing those cotton shorts, the sweater - OH GOD, very nearly like MOTHER'S! - snug across her chest, showing off globes of flesh that were firm and perky. Then she moaned, eyes rolling beneath closed lids, and Jason made a decision.

He would get her inside the lodge, move with a purpose as morning was coming, and sort out what to do with this fantasy girl come to life once she was in bed and the doors and windows were locked. For now, he knew his bones could use a rest, as they ached from two days and nights of carnage. Yes, he would take her back into he house, to her room, and sort everything out then. Besides, she was beginning to toss in his arms, and he did not want this treat to slip out of his grasp. He shifted her to his shoulder as he approached the the door and entered the now silent house.


	3. Chapter 3

Chris's room at first seemed the obvious place to go, but Jason contemplated the practicality of the hammock combined with a twitching girl, and decided against it. No, he would take her to what could only be the master bedroom, the room with the large, soft bed and the dressers that Jason had ransacked on previous visits. That room had floorboards free of gore and rafters free of bodies. No dead friends stretched out on the luxurious mattress, no peekaboo corpse in the closet. He would not have to experience any more of her hysterics due to the sudden discovery upon wakening of what that punk Rick called The Wild he would spill her out onto the plump comforters and admire this gift that proved to be much more potent than any fantasy his misshapen head was capable of fabricating. For to him, Chris was just that, a fantasy the likes of which spun through his head for decades given form and flesh.

Getting up that narrow, spiral staircase was tough, but no worse than navigating an unmarked trail that granted access to the lake only after winding through dense trees and thicket. And here, there were no spiked barbs to slice his knuckles and no deer ticks to burrow beneath tender, exposed skin. Soon he had nudged the door to the master bedroom open with a foot and laid Chris down on the unblemished bed. Standing over her now, watching her sleep, he felt that the two of them had turned a corner. The sensation of being placed upon the bed seemed to have calmed her a bit, as she was no longer moaning and writhing. The muscles of her face had relaxed, changing her tense expression to one of neutral peace.

While she still looked locked into a subconscious fable full of roiling water, creatures bursting forth and deep woods madness, Chris Higgins was at least in a quietly drifting canoe, close enough to the bubbling water to see it but far enough way that her delicate grip on sanity was not immediately threatened. Had she been surrounded by the white water rapids, Jason would be witnessing a much different event. However for the moment she lay utterly still and at peace, much like the enchanted princess in the fairy story that his mother read to him from the old hardbound book with cracked binding.

But now he had the maiden right here before him, her delightful, baby-soft brown hair mused with hay and sweat from their frantic cat and mouse game earlier. As time drew out like the blade of a knife, Jason reached out and brushed some of the hay away, grasping strands of her hair between his thick, dirty fingers. He stroked her cheek, and a twitch of his hand towards the collar of her sweater and what lay beneath snapped him out of his reverie.

Of course, Jason was no prince, and would never be. If anything, he was the beast, the monster, the unseen evil stalking dark woods, a boogeyman lurking beneath nursery windows waiting to snatch up babes and dash them upon the rocks. No, things like him were never delivered the maiden at the end of those ancient stories, unless it was to rend, to kill. Her chest rose and fell steadily, her lips slightly parted and if he worked his imagination enough, she could almost be whispering to him, asking things of him. Begging most certainly, but not in the manner he was accustomed to this was not like so many before her had plead for him to stay his blade, to make it merciful, no. This was something foreign, and much worse.

With that thought he drew away from the sleeping beauty sharply, head spinning. It was all too much, and he found himself storming out of the room, leaving Chris sprawled on the soft blankets behind him as he headed to dispose of the dead teenagers littering the lodge. She wouldn't be going anywhere, not by the looks of her anyway, and he needed the distraction, if only for a little while. He needed time to think. Time to think of something other than her thighs, and her hands that rested upon them, knuckles up, showing off the bruises and blood from her tumbles out windows and down that hillside by the bridge, where her stranded van still sat, cracking the boards.

As he drug the mangled remains of Debbie out into the barn, those mocking voices from camp seemed to permeate his mind ten fold. Jeering, scorning, laughing. Sometimes their taunts were just his own name that they shouted - Voor-HEES! Voor-HEES! Like he was a pig being tormented by cries of sooey from the farmer trying to lure them into the slaughterhouse. Oftentimes he ducked into a cabin, crouching under a window as they streamed past, already forgetting about their victim as they readied themselves for plunges off the dock and into crystal clear, sparkling waters.

He would watch from that window of the unused supply cabin as they frolicked, eventually turning his gaze to the fireplace and the cords of wood within. That was when his fascination with fire had begun, during days spent in those solitary cabins, in the time between being chased in and leaving to find mama.

Fire meant warmth, not as wonderful a warmth as those thighs upstairs, but warmth nonetheless. And to be honest, basking before a fire's comforting glow was not the only thing on his mind. He could explore himself in those private cabins, do things that would be unthinkable elsewhere. But since he was now in the clutches of extreme honesty, he may as well touch upon the other thoughts that had flowed through his mind so long ago.

He could have allowed a fire to spin out of control, indeed, caused it to go that way, and burned that cursed camp to the ground. No more days of slaving away feeding the pretty gargoyles for his mother, and no more watching those same things mock him, dangle that world that he could never have in front of his face day in and day out. The same way his mother later burned that place - for him. The way he could burn this place, now. Because who was he kidding, really?

Like the amateur society of Camp Crystal, the real world, the world of Higgins Haven, was something dangling right here in front of him, f he could not have the girls of that place with their pigtails and hyper shrieks of joy at sending a paint filled water balloon sailing through an open window of the boys' cabin, then he certainly could not have Chris Higgins, the princess. Fire would solve all his problems. The bodies, turned to ash. The evidence of what went on here, reduced to cinders that would explode upward in the sky like millions of lightning bugs.

As Jason busied himself with the task of hiding the remains of her friends, in the bedroom, Chris's eyes fluttered. Her mouth felt thick, and dry, as if it had been stuffed with cotton in preparation for burial. Everything ached, every inch of skin felt raked and raw. The light filtering through the window caused her to chink her eyes to block the painful rays of the same sun she once frolicked beneath. But the bed remained soft beneath her, and the smell of home was dense, and comforting in it's own way.


	4. Chapter 4

She lay there for what seemed like hours, trying to piece together the events that had led to her waking alone in bed. Chris felt the icy stab of deja vu, this wasn't the first time she had faced down a nightmare only to wake up in a quiet bedroom. And this had been no dream, her stained and bloody clothing told her that much. She struggled to sit up, wincing at the dull ache in her bones and the sharp pain in her sides. No, definitely not a dream. It was then she saw him standing in the doorway, and understanding washed over her.

"It's you," She spoke in a flat monotone that was somehow pierced him deeper than any of her hysterics had. She didn't speak again for a long moment, only sat there amidst the tossed bed covers regarding the man in the mask the colour of a dirty bone. Her eyes were flat, her hair tangled, and her words were as dry as dust. If he had been a normal man it would have been his turn to respond, but he was not a normal man, and so he just stood there, mute as always. Chris was sitting cross legged on the bed, almost as though she were at the edge of that dock outside and afraid to let her feet dangle over. Her natural luster, hair, eyes and posture, was gone.

"You should have ended it that night." She leveled at him, voice still strangely devoid of any emotion.

That night? What night? There had been so many nights of pain and anguish at Crystal Lake, and sometimes the lines between them blurred to the point that it seemed like one long, never ending night at Camp Blood, always that fetid place. Rotten cabins, rotten lake. But the night she meant had taken place far from that den of sin. It was a patch of woods near this very room, where he had come across her weeping beneath an oak tree. The knife jutting from his fist had been all set to stab a rabbit or something else for dinner. He had not been prepared for the girl with rich brown locks.

But he hadn't put the knife away, indeed had clutched it tighter,readying himself for the kill. Something in his subconscious, however, could not deny that she was fully clothed,

not draped drunkenly against some punk with one thing on his mind,

and seemed to be more affected by something than any of the others he had seen.

Really, how many of the pretty gargoyles who frequented his stomping grounds had ever cried, except when confronted by his visage? Even then, they never shed real tears, the tears of bullied boys and mothers without children but the whimpers of selfish creatures who didn't want their sinful lives of groping and thrusting to end. Well, he had shown them. He had thrust something into each and every one of them. It had been a blade with a handle polished smooth by his palm, a blade that was the final lover each of them would ever know.

"But I should have known you would come back," she continued dully, drawing him out of his reverie. "I was stupid to think it was over and finished. And now everyone is dead, except me. Why me? Do you..." Her brow furrowed slightly, the only hint of any sort of emotion that registered on her blank face "Do you just want to draw it out, to make me suffer?"

Of course there was no answer from the hulking man standing before her. It was ridiculous to think that he would deign to address her query, this man that had accosted her in the woods so long ago, done awful

AWFUL

things, things she still didn't want to remember and who had brutally slaughtered her friends who had done nothing to deserve their grisly ends save being her guests. SHe was a fool to ask questions, even she in her current state could recognize that. Perhaps he could not even speak, perhaps he was just an animal, something akin to the cold eyed killers of the deep that knew nothing other than the allure of scenting freshly spilled blood.

But regardless, she continued to press on. After all, did not the condemned man receive some sort of last privilege, whether it be a single cigarette, a moment alone with a Priest, or even a slice of pecan pie? What harm was there in giving her disjointed thoughts voice, when she was certain that he would end them soon enough with a massive, filthy hand wrapped around her windpipe, squeezing until the merciful darkness took her. His eyes were as cold and empty as she felt, but she continued with the courage that only the dying can display. And it was that cold slice of hopelessness seated deep within her gut that forced her next words.

"You know you ruined my life that night? Do you?" she spat, vitriol rushing in, warming her apathetic heart "I don't think you could possibly know, because I don't think you are capable of the simplest emotion. I just want to thank you," And here her eyes took on the sharpest, steely glint, her voice becoming lower but angrier with every word. "For fucking up anything I could have had with Rick, with anyone. Thank you for making sure that I would NEVER be able to stomach the idea of any sort of closeness, of a kiss with any sort of meaning. Thanks for making my mother right, for making sure I'd never find anyone, how could I after that? Most of all, thanks for making me into something just like you. A twisted, fucked up thing that hides behind a different sort of mask."

Her confession done, she sat there with her legs crossed and her soul bared. Now that she had spoken her piece, miraculously with no intervention from the monstrosity before her, she felt a certain calm sweep over her. Whatever happened now was okay, because she'd said all that needed to be said.

Maybe if she were lucky and there was any sort of justice in this world she could go to her grave knowing she'd wounded him, even if her words cut only a fraction as much as his blade had. And so she faced him, waiting.

He was not sure what his reaction was, because no one had ever talked to him before. No sweet nothings whispered from a lover's lips further down the pillow - no pillow! - no sudden but lovely proclamations of affection as she straightened the stacks of clutter in their house - shack, a ratty patchwork of boards and tin in the deep, dark woods, and the clutter was old, side-of-the-road furniture and a severed head - no inquiries as to what if anything had occurred over the course of his day - oh, the things that had occurred. Instead he heard those things being spoken to and asked of others while he voyeured from behind a tree or just outside the bedroom window. One thing he did know was that when it came time to present himself, at least there was a passionate response. A sharp intake of breath. Voices high and wobbly with fear. Animated faces with wide eyes and trembling lips. The closest he could ever get to seeing someone in the grips of an orgasm.

His thoughts turned dark then, because here this girl was, this Chris Higgins, a girl who had not disappointed him each time he showed himself to her,

and gone wild with terror, and now here she was like those blank chalkboards in the Camp Blood rec room, featureless, empty, and devoid of meaning. But though his mind was swimming in a dark ocean with no shore in sight, Jason Voorhees did not have the urge to rend and tear. This only mildly surprised him, for he hadn't gotten that urge the first time he encountered this girl, not after he'd seen her prim, pretty outfit that appropriately covered her wonderful curves, and noticed that here was someone in his woods who wasn't rutting like a wild animal,or shedding their shorts to present a nude defiance to him, watcher in the woods, and indeed, the very gods themselves, peering down from the clusters of stars above, so very much like the clusters of trees from which he always watched. So there was no real desire to hurt this girl just then, and more confused than anything else by her quiet, slack face, devoid of rage, fear or even the pout she usually wore as Princess of The Woods, Jason stared a moment longer, then silently left the room.

Chris watched him go, eyes smoldering like the embers in wait beneath a poorly extinguished fire. Of all the reactions she'd expected from this reaper in the flesh, this she had not foreseen. As therapeutic as it had been to slice at him with bitter words, she had expected some sort of response, even if it had been for him to bury a blade within the bony cage housing her heart. For him to just walk away, as if she were nothing more than a curious insect sighted on an especially long blade of grass was a slap in the face. Even if, as she supposed, he did not possess the capacity for any sort of empathy, she was sure he could process the hatred in her voice.

For him to walk away, no... that was just unacceptable. Damn it, he owed her at least this much. After cutting down cherished friends, a lover, and reducing her life to THIS, he couldn't walk away and brush her words off like so much ash. Before her actions could even register within her, she pulled herself upright and stood rigidly, drawing herself to her full height with an air that would have befitted a queen.

"So, you think you can just walk off and be done with me, just like that?" Her voice was tight, her eyes needle sharp as she continued. "Well, go ahead and slink off like a coward. I'll be right here, just the way you wanted me because I am not a coward like you, and I'm not something that has to hide it's face and slink in the shadows. No, I'll be right here, always ready to remind you of exactly what you are. And even if you cut me down too, I'll still be there in the back of your head. I promise you that. "

Jason retreated to the spiral staircase as Chris loudly berated him from her bedroom. He found himself able to shut out her words if he stared at his fingernails, cared for and trimmed by an instrument stolen from her father's own bathroom. He had scrubbed them clean since the massacre, but since moving the bodies to the barn they had gotten grimy again. Blood was caked under them, reminding him of what had occurred here, even in this very hallway, where the idiot staggering around on his hands had offered himself up as an upside down lamb to the slaughter. Once downstairs, he went for the nearest sink to once again scrub them with was at the top of the stairs now, her voice loud enough for him to hear but still not a shout. What was he going to do with her?


	5. Chapter 5

She took the stairs two at a time, her hands itching to dig into the scarred flesh of his arms beneath that dirty work-shirt and FORCE him to listen to her. The gush of the faucet caught her ear -

Does he think he can just wash it off?

and drew her to him. For a long moment she just stared at him as he wiped his hand on the guest towel that was rapidly looking much worse for the wear. Chris was certain that while her mother often chose form over function, even the most rugged hand towel in the Sears catalogue was not intended to be used by a deformed backwoods freak with such filthy, gore smeared hands.

"Nice try, but you can't wash it off. Lord knows I tried," her voice was mocking as her eyes bore into his back. "You know, for years you haunted me, you lurked in every dark corner, especially the ones in my mind. I couldn't escape, and I always knew you would be back. And here you are, but know that it's my turn to haunt you. So how does it feel, ghost?" Still he ignored her, his humped back absorbing her verbal slings and arrows. And it was too much for her. In a bold act that would certainly be deemed as suicide, her hand shot up and determined fingers clenched against the soiled fabric of his olive green shirt.

Had she actually touched him? She tugged on his sleeve, then used two fingers to jab him in the side. Though the girl couldn't hurt anyone unless she had an ax, and her assault was on the same level as Muffin nudging his calf with her nose, Jason was shocked. The only ones who ever touched him were people he had up against a wall, gripping his wrists as he strangled them, or held them there to puncture their stomachs with sharp blades. Slowly he turned to face Chris, who was standing there with her hands on her hips.

Now that she had his attention, the tongue that had effortlessly trailed off insult after insult became heavy in her mouth. The single functional eye that stared down at her from that bone white mask pierced her, and for a moment she wondered if she had gone too far.

But incredibly, she found the courage to go further, her thoughts drifting back to the lady of the lake, the one who had burst forth from the water like a moldy jack-in-the-box. She was no garden variety specter, no hallucination brought on by this thing in front of her, no. The lady she had seen before. That lady's head had been resting atop a crudely built shrine in a dirty shack halfway between Higgins Haven and hell itself. And that lady, she was no nameless victim like her friends were, for when word of this massacre reached the world, in the end it would all be about him, with the murdered ones forgotten like so many dying embers from a campfire drenched by the black rain of a midnight storm.

That lady was this thing's mother, had probably spawned him in that pit of a lake. And it made perfect sense. Only something that utterly horrifying could have ever have borne a monstrosity such as this abomination. "I guess it is just in your blood to be what you are. Maybe monsters are born as well as made. That appears to be the case here, anyway." She waited for a response, any response before continuing her verbal assault on the giant before her.

"I guess it is just in your blood to be what you are. Maybe monsters are born as well as made. That appears to be the case here, anyway." She waited for a response, any response before continuing her verbal assault on the giant before her. "After all, what else could a monster possibly produce? And apparently that monster out there knew that her son needed - but couldn't get - a girlfriend," she hissed, her words a mouthful of battery acid that she spat upon the mask with newfound venom.

"That's why she cheated and shoved me into your arms. And what did you do with me, hmm? Did you ravish me? Tear my clothes off? Throw me on my own bed?" Then she faked an expression of pity, her brow furrowing. "Oh, I see..." she said, trailing off. "A little rusty, are we? Or maybe," she whispered, voice still acid. "Maybe the plumbing doesn't work."

He stood there and absorbed the verbal blows, the darkness tainting the lake waters of his mind spreading at the mention of mother. Let her insult him all she liked, it wasn't like he hadn't heard the same things from those little bitches at camp. Against that, he was insulated the same way his shack was not. But mother was a monster? A monster only capable of birthing monsters? The one who had slaved away salting and seasoning food that the wolves at Camp Blood devoured? The same one who stabbed to death the ones who were fucking each other while he thrashed beneath the surface? The one who had spent decades poisoning and burning, only to take up the blade again when more of them had returned, like locusts? And all in his name? In the name of murdered children everywhere?

Now she was opening that once lovely, big mouth again, even leaning in to him. "Is that it, Momma's boy? Is that why she jumped in? Even that freak knew her son would never have a girl unless she-"

THAT'S ENOUGH!

They were in the kitchen by the sink, and on the counter were an array of bottles and jam were in the kitchen by the sink, and on the counter were an array of bottles and jam jars. He grabbed one of them in a flash, and using just enough power to knock her out, brought it down upon her temple.

She collapsed backwards towards the table and he grabbed her to prevent her fall. Gathering the unconscious, foul mouthed girl in his arms again, he made his way back to that blasted spiral staircase, to install her back in her bedroom.

Again.

Chris's head was pounding when she woke god knew how many hours later. Her first thought upon opening her eyes was utter shock and disbelief that she was still breathing, followed quickly by the idea that perhaps she was dead and this was Hell. Her limbs were so heavy, and as she struggled to lift an arm to prop herself upon she discovered the reason for their sudden weight.

He'd tied her here. He had apparently gone back to the barn to procure the very rope she'd attempted to hang him with, and used it to secure her limbs to the frame of the bed. She strained her neck to see if he were still in the room, or if he'd shut her in here like one would shut a naughty puppy into the laundry room. It was impossible to discern whether or not he was present for her field of vision was so restricted in her current supine position.

Her head still throbbing, she didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Apparently her words had struck deeply enough for him to brain her with a jar of the cherry preserves that her mother had brought from the Farmer's Market in anticipation of some picture perfect breakfast scene that had never materialized and then carry her back up here and go to the trouble of tying her down.

She chose laughing over crying just then, when she wondered if he would end her next tirade by slamming her upside the head with her mother's favorite syrup pitcher.

She was lucid enough to wonder if maybe she had been wrong about his plumbing not working, and that perhaps was why she was currently anchored to the bed. She doubted he had the courage to face her, fully conscious anyway, and she relaxed a bit. She didn't put it past him to peep on her, though, and so she was still on red alert. Her suspicion that he was lurking about somewhere was soon confirmed when she heard the tell tale squeak of the door hinge.

"DId you get an eyeful, you creep? I should have known you would be into bondage. It's the only way you would ever get any." And with that she was silent, but triumphant for a moment.

He was looming in the doorway like grim death itself, although death refused to kill her. Apparently that was her punishment for what mother had called being "one of those girls, like your friend Debbie." Her few kisses with Rick were enough in this puritan world to condemn her to a life of being held prisoner in her own home, in her own bed, while her executioner taunted her by watching, leering, spying, but not killing. Incredibly, he was wearing the jam jar and a smaller syrup pitcher by their handles on his fingers like rings, and every so often he clicked them together almost nervously.

It was enough to send Chris into another spasm of laughter. "So you brought condiments too? You do have exotic tastes after all. Maybe I was wrong earlier," She giggled madly, pushing the envelope ever further. Because in a strange way, she didn't fear him anymore. Sure, he was repulsive, and she certainly didn't welcome the thought of his clammy hands anywhere near her person. But in a way it was exhilarating and satisfying on some small level to torment him. "Or maybe you should go back to the kitchen and ask your soggy mess of a momma to fix you some pancakes and stay off the big boy's field." She finished, still smirking.

It was ironic that the insults she continually flung his way were of a much more perverse nature than anything she would have ever dreamed of uttering prior to all of this. Of course, she had him to thank for that. How strange that after years of fear and chastity that she would hurl such licentious remarks his way, even if they were meant to provoke and inflame rather than entice. How utterly wrong and yet fitting that he was the only one that had heard such filth pouring from her lips. This made her laugh all the harder, until tears came to her eyes.

Jason stood there clicking the jam jar and syrup pitcher together, amazed at his own willpower. Anyone else would have been chopped chum right now, poured into a bucket and spread around that little branch of Crystal Lake he had once heard her mother call Higgins Pond. She had learned nothing from getting clubbed on the head, so that must mean she was meant for him, as he also never learned. Always too late with the revenge, always too blinded by rage to see a girl half his size sneaking up from behind with his own machete, the list went on and on. But he was improving, and the massacre at this girl's farm had been proof. Still, he hesitated to hurt this Chris Higgins, maybe because this was not her true nature. Or hadn't been, in any event. She was just wearing the mask of a bitch to hurt him, the way Alice had hurt his mother on that beach so long ago. But he must remember mother, and not just the insults directed at her by this girl, but the mission she had begun the year after his drowning,

when she made mincemeat out of Barry and Claudette.

The clanking of the jars was beginning to get under her skin, just a bit. Her giggling ceased, she strained to look at him, the tight rope impeding any freedom of movement she would have normally had. Her neck would hurt something fierce later, she just knew it. The tears that had rolled out of the corners of her eyes stung her abraded skin with their saltiness. Impertinence silenced for the moment, she managed to twist enough to get him within her view

Always so damned silent. The way he was clicking the pitchers together made her grit her teeth and she no longer found the situation funny. Her back ached, and the rope looped round her extremities was beginning to chafe uncomfortably. However, she bit her tongue. She wasn't about to ask him to let her up, only to have him walk off and busy himself with god knew what in her home. Finally she spoke again if only to drown out that aggravating clicking. "Seriously, whatever you are planning, just go ahead and do it. I'm obviously not going anywhere."

Jason walked over to the bed with that same funky strut that reminded Chris of Debbie's favorite disco tape, the one that was still locked away inside the Boogie Wagon, which itself was locked into the shattered ruins of the little wooden bridge. And here she was, locked to her own bed as the monster advanced on her. There was something in all of that, but she didn't know what. Maybe that she, the tape and the van were involved in some freaky bondage nightmare? She shuddered. Then he set the jars on her night table and touched the rope lashing her arm to the bed frame. He gave it a twang, like a musician would a guitar string. She looked up at him, meeting his gaze. Whatever he was going to do, she would stare him down the whole time.

His strangely immaculate hand - scrubbed clean with Higgins' household dish soap! - moved from the rope to her arm, which jumped a bit at his touch. He squeezed her shoulder gently, then pulled away quickly, like she was a hot iron, before doing it again. "That's it, killer," she said through gritted teeth. "I'm what you've been dreaming about since that night two years ago,

aren't I? I bet you've dreamed about slashing throats, too, but I'm always in the background, right?"

She was right, before it had just been slashing throats, but once he saw her she had always been there, like a wife waiting for her husband as he toiled and slaved at work. To a part of Jason it was toil, too, and it certainly kept him a slave. But now, he had one of his own. He squeezed her shoulder again, bending down so that his masked visage was mere inches from her face.

She wanted him to do something, did she? She was taunting him? How dare she. She was not master of these woods, he was. As he stroked her stomach, gripping the soft, fuzzy material of her sweater in his own trembling fingers, his other hand suddenly shot into the pocket of his - Harold's - pants, producing the pocket knife he had hidden there. She gasped when he flashed it before her eyes, and then grabbed a handful of that heavenly but gore stained sweater, slicing it clean down the middle.

The tearing of fabric was like a gunshot echoing in a wooded field as a hunter brought down his he was face to face with a white bra containing two bulging breasts, the nipples clearly visible through the delicate fabric. Jason felt the stirring that was so familiar to him, but usually he was stuck in the shack, unable to satisfy the burning urges. He couldn't believe Chris was not screaming yet, and she was amazed as well.

"Do it, you fucking bastard," she spat, and he used the same knife to slice the bra, severing the material like a surgeon, never once hitting her flesh. Her breasts popped out and presented themselves to him, full and ripe in the hazy afternoon light that was spilling in through the window. "Do it if you're a real man," Chris hissed, the cords in her neck straining as she forced herself to stare him down, or in her case, up.

Jason now squeezed her breast the way he had that shoulder, and felt a joy course through him that he had never known even as a living human being back with his mother. Then he snapped himself out of his daydreams by picturing his child self in a lake of fire, demons on every shore mocking him, laughing the way Chris Higgins had.

In a deep but controlled rage he punched the wall above her head, his fist leaving a hole. Then she did scream, flinching as though she'd been stabbed. When he pulled his hand out, plaster and bits of wood were imbedded in his knuckles. There was pain, but nothing compared to the lake of fire. He used the same hand to pull the sliced halves of her sweater back over her heaving breasts, jammed the knife back into his pants, snatched up the pitchers on her night table and sullenly stomped out of the girl's bedroom, wrenching the door shut behind him.


	6. Chapter 6

The ropes were totally unnecessary at this moment, for Chris lay paralyzed by the utter shock of what had just transpired between her and her masked captor. It had all happened so quickly, one moment she had been firing away insults and the next he had been on her, slashing, ripping. But not her, she'd noticed, although she couldn't deny she had winced each time the knife had come down, sure that it was headed for her throat instead of her garments. But no, he'd only filleted her clothing, and any sense of propriety she had at the moment. Even though he'd pulled the torn halves of her sweater together before storming out, the rise and fall of her chest threatened to expose her once again.

The fragments of wood and plaster in her already messy hair made her want to toss her head in the worst way, but she tried to resist the urge. After all, the last thing she needed was for the already sliding sweater to flop open and leave her helpless and exposed whenever he came back. If he came back, that was. Perhaps he intended to leave her here, pinned to this bed to slowly waste away rather than end her life in a violent, yet mercifully short manner. A thread of fear wormed it's way into her. As much as she'd projected a bold and unflinching act earlier, surprising even herself with the words coming out of her mouth, in the aftermath of it all she had to admit she was afraid.

She tested the strength of her bonds, and she was dismayed although not surprised to find that she was firmly anchored to the bed. She wouldn't be getting up soon. If she wanted up she would have to lie here until he returned and hope that perhaps he was in a charitable mood.

Somehow, she doubted he would be.

And somewhere within, twisted up with that thread of fear of being left to starve in her bed was a tendril of something even more frightening. The idea that she would prefer his return, over his absence. Not just because he would hopefully release her from her increasingly uncomfortable state, but because as deep and utterly shameful as it was to admit, his touch had not been as repulsive as she had imagined.

And that truly frightened her more than anything else he had done.

Jason had lumbered back to the spiral staircase after his triumphant victory over his inner demons, as well as the pretty little demon named Chris. Let her mull that one over awhile, he laughed inside his skull. Her head was probably swimming the way he did: desperate thrashing before the big blackout. He was sure the next time he went in there, if he bothered to, she would be back in the clutches of a fever dream. He paused just before descending, however, actually blushing behind the mask when he realized the cause of his delay. He had something that needed to be done. Heading into the bathroom - the tub now drained and free of the bloody clothes he'd stashed there to spook Chris - Jason closed the door behind him and incredibly, locked it. It was a stupid gesture leftover from childhood, but it remained nonetheless. Stripping down quickly, and using the closest bottle of fluid, he gratified himself, filled with shame that his victory over the girl had not been total. When he was done - and the voice of a very surprised and angry Mother reverberating in his head, he hopped into the shower just as the girl in the bathrobe had done earlier.

Yes Jason, that maternal voice said then, you need to wash away that dreadful sin.

And wash it away he did, like the victim of an OCD attack, with plenty of soap and water as scalding as he could bear. When he was done, he dried himself off and dressed in those same drab, bloodstained clothes that had once belonged to a man he had left lying at the back door of his store with a meat cleaver imbedded in his chest. That sin was fine, but the other was too much. He was weak, exactly as he had believed himself to be since he was old enough to have thoughts. He passed by her door again on the way to the stairs, wanting to shock her by punching a fist through it, but left her alone. Down below again, he suddenly had the urge to escape that awful house and taste fresh air through the holes in his mask. Bolting through a side door, he emerged into a beautiful blue sky day that made the water down by the dock shimmer and sparkle.

It was at that dock he caught a flash of his mother, glowing like a platter full of rotten apples in the sun. As he moved closer like a feral cat approaching a dish of fresh buttermilk, he could hear the water dripping from her sleeves onto the faded boards of the dock. She was standing at the edge with one hand on her hip and the other atop a wooden support beam, and her eyes shone with malevolent radiance. Malevolence reserved for her little boy.

He had seen her many times before this, even after she had died, but never in this condition. Well, that wasn't exactly true. Earlier that day when his mother had come up behind Chris and forced her into his arms, then she had looked in less than peak condition as well. But there had not been the quiet anger on her face then as was now. He stepped to the beginning of the dock like a frightened gunslinger who understands that his opponent is both faster and more skilled than him, and that the duel will be nasty.

Slowly he gripped a post of his own, unable to move any closer. Pamela Voorhees pointed at him then, and after a few moments of goggle eyed silence he understood that she was really gesturing towards the house.

"She must be dealt with, in one way or another."

"Your decision needs to be swift, Jason. You know it's only a matter of time before They find you. You have maybe a handful of hours, at most. Whatever you decide, my dear boy, by now you realize that she can never be yours. For that I am truly and deeply sorry." Then she stepped over the side of the dock and sank like a stone, causing him to bark out a hoarse cry as he rushed forward, desperate to save her. But he saw that the water was smooth as glass, not even an air bubble in sight. Still, he had to try.

He stepped down into the water gently, all too aware of his own lack of swimming skills.

Flashes of the other girl in the sweater plagued him then, and how she had waded gingerly into the water looking for the fat boy's wallet.

But while she had found what she was looking for, Jason did not. He went out a few feet, feeling around in the water with shaking hands. No mother.

Soaked up to his thighs, Jason looked up to the sky and cursed the heavens. Again.

Chris had resumed fidgeting with the ropes, by now not caring about her shredded sweater. By some small miracle she had wiggled enough to afford herself some slack, and she was hopeful that she might be able to squirm free with enough effort. The telltale thump of his boots against the stairs caused her to pause in her escape attempt, her heart leaping into her throat. Was he headed towards her room? She forced herself to lay still, even though panic was beginning to course through her veins.

Suddenly he was there in the doorway, obviously agitated even though his face was still hidden behind that scuffed up hockey mask. Instead of storming into the room for Round Two of their little sparring match he simply thrust a long, gangly arm in her direction and used a single finger to point at her. Then he was gone again, next door in her parents' room, where he slammed the door behind himself.

She simply blinked and then blinked some more. Just when she thought things couldn't get any weirder, here was this suddenly complicated psycho marching to the beat of his own drummer, a drummer who for some reason thought it necessary to keep the song going past its obvious ending point. And now after his strange gesture he was in the room next door, not crashing things around the way he had in the barn last night, but lying on the bed, tossing and turning.

She struggled again against her slackened bounds although her only reward was a lovely dose of rope burn for all her trouble. Even though they were slightly looser now, they still held firm. Apparently he was a master of his art.

She could still hear her parent's bed protest against his bulk through the wall, as he thrashed against the soft mattress like a dog settling into it's den.

Giving up on her bonds, she simply lay there contemplating the situation.

As convoluted as it all was, she was fairly sure he wasn't going to kill her. He seemed content to make her suffer, but surely he would have already snuffed her life out were that his intention. Although this knowledge should have been consoling, in a way it troubled her further. What was the reason behind keeping her alive, anyway? Sure, there was the incident a few hours ago, but she was sure that if all he wanted was a quick grope there were other opportunities for just that.

Meanwhile, in the room next door, Jason was lost in the only contemplation he knew how to have, which consisted of his mother's voice saying make a decision and the high, anxious voice of Reason saying yes, do it soon! This place is not that far from Packanack. And when they find you they will gather around you like those demons circling that lake of fire, their fangs and claws ready for the kill.

He'd been bitten by fangs before, and more than a few demons had sank their claws into his flesh. He knew that this time would be much worse. Oh, he fully believed those camp children had been capable of killing him, if the planets were aligned the right way, but never had they carried weapons that could shear his head from his shoulders. Ginny driving that blade into him was one thing, and he could basically shrug off the minor stabs Chris had dished out, but bullets? Gunpowder blasted into his face? And if that happened out here at this lonely farm, the mission would die with him. So no, he must leave soon, but what to do? The fact that he was lying here writhing in agony on her parents' bed was proof enough that he could not kill the girl, at least not with his own hands. That left leaving her tied and setting the house ablaze, even going so far as to litter the place with gasoline soaked hay.

That's what those chain draped punks had been trying, mere hours before. As he laid wait for them just beyond those faded red doors he'd been able to gather that.

But part of the reason for his brutality towards them - especially the one called Ali (so much like ALICE!) - was their cowardly sneak attack. For whatever it was worth, any attacks he made were in the flesh. He didn't hide behind flames. Every time he chopped the biker, every limb he took off, he felt proud, like he was weeding out the cowards, just like those camp children who hunted him in groups.

And admit it to yourself, the other reason for refusing the flames is that she would be dead.

That he just couldn't do directly, and now that the indirect approach was out, that left Jason with some breathing room, for killing would take time. He could afford to figure out whether or not to free her from bondage, as well as where to go to avoid capture.

There was also the matter of wanted to see her one last time,

and if that were to happen, that also meant one of the final two decisions had been made. He couldn't look her in the eye and not slash the ropes. She would be free to clean herself as he had done, and call her parents. She would be free from him.

Jason got up and looked out the bedroom window, half expecting to see mother again, still pointing, but this time up at him. Them. He and Chris. Like partners in crime, with Pamela the town cryer, alerting everyone to their pathetic attempt at playing house. But only the barn was down there, faded red and squatting almost obscenely under a hot mid-day sun, the lake beyond that. He stared a good long minute at that blazing dock, which seemed to be made from boards of fire, daring bare feet to run across.

The smell of burning flesh and the sounds of sizzling and screaming as the grill cooked living meat assaulted his senses, and finally, once he was sure she was not down there, Jason turned and left the room. He strode past Chris's bedroom, not quite ready just yet to bring an end to...whatever it was they were doing in this farmhouse. How many time had he taken these stairs today? Well, no matter, for he was taking them again, seeking out what the drawers of the bureau in the main room had to offer. If he remembered correctly, what he needed was in the middle one, something that had proven crucial in his quest to find his very first victim, the girl who had

killed his mother.

A Map. The Higgins had all kinds of maps in those drawers, not just of the surrounding lake region but of all sorts of exotic locales,

places Jason couldn't hope to pronounce with his dead vocal cords nor even understand with his limited intellect. But he didn't need the brains of a scientist to recognize local landmarks, and the trails that snaked all around had been the Alice-creature's fatal mistake, her need for closure through tempting the gods of fate itself.

She had stayed in Crystal Lake, even rented a house beside a patch of woods that of course allowed him to emerge unseen by prying eyes. The woods had always hidden him when prying eyes and people with nasty intent were would hide him again, as he made his way from Higgins Haven and to a place without law enforcement. And hopefully, without the pretty gargoyles that seemed hell bent on opening camp after camp on the shores of the lake that served as a portal to a world of mindless blades and fire.

Perhaps he would choose a secluded cluster of houses, maybe even that old gothic clapboard Alice had temporarily called home. He had been back there before,several times in the past five years, to revisit the scene of his Very First Crime. It was vacant now, the other tenants not surprisingly scattering themselves to the wind upon learning that one of their flock had been butchered right upstairs. It was a group of homes only used part of the year anyway, when the residents felt like ditching their regular lives and enjoying the peace and tranquility of the woods. The road it was on led to town...eventually. Between it and Crystal Proper were simply miles of rolling hills and trees that allowed one to skirt the road unseen.

Dare he do it? Go to that girl's house? The place she had experienced nightmares of his mother, and the pick that had pierced her brain?

But there was still the problem of what to do with the girl. Although he now had a fairly solid plan of action for himself to leave this place behind, he had no idea what to do with the idea of leaving her tied to the bed to slowly starve was distasteful to him, and as surly and mouthy as she was, she didn't deserve a fate akin to burning in the depths of hell should he light the Haven on fire before leaving.

For a moment, he imagined the two of them together in Alice's old haunt, but even he knew that was farfetched. The only solution was to go in there now, and finish her off. While Jason prided himself on some of his more creative kills, he had never really given much thought to trying to provide a clean, painless death.

But he found himself thinking of just that now, weighing a quick, accurate slice of the neck with his blade to just wrapping his hands around her neck and then giving it a quick , he found himself reluctant to do either.

He knew he had to do something, but what was there? He was disgusted with his reluctance to go into that bedroom and simply choke the life out of her, and leave. Well, what ever he was going to do, he had better act quickly. Might as well go in there for his last look at her anyway.


	7. Chapter 7

Clutching a map of Wessex County in one hand, Jason made a pit stop outside before re-climbing that novelty staircase. He checked the barn to make sure the bodies were all in their respective stalls, propped against bales of hay. There was the pile of bikers, paper thin bravado as easily pierced as their flesh. Both halves of Moron Andy were right beside his girlfriend, Shower Fresh Debbie, and everyone else was present and accounted for. It wasn't that he actually thought they might have disappeared; unlike his mother, these souls had departed this earthly plane. And his mother only reappeared in fever dreams of his own, or frantic mid-day visions, such as earlier, to warn him. No, he just wanted to see it one last time. He would have done it with the Packanack people, but his injury from Ginny and the fact that she had escaped to return with police had necessitated his speedy disappearance.

Jason stood there beside Rick, who was now one eyed like him, his sweater which was so strangely like his mother's covered in gore. Satisfaction that he had completed yet another chapter of his mission washed over him, harmless and wonderful where the waves of the lake had been fatal and terrible. I did it, Ma, he thought to himself, to her. Ginny may have escaped, and maybe there wouldn't be a way to ever track her down as he had Alice, but he had avenged his mother's death, and continued the mission she had begun: cleanse the lake and surrounding woods of all who entered.

Now, with thoughts of one day tracking Ginny to her own little bed and breakfast in the hopefully nearby woods on the back burner of his mind, Jason left the barn of dead sinners. He ambled by that familiar dock on his way back to the house, pausing at the entrance to hold up the map, pointing as she had done. I'll be gone with the wind in a matter of minutes, he thought-spoke to her. The police will come, and see the aftermath of my wrath. Then they will know that the Voorhees curse is alive and well in these woods. They will know that our judgement is eternal. Sinners and trespassers beware.

Though she did not appear again, and the water was broken only by the sudden flight of a duck, he was satisfied that Pamela Voorhees had received his message. Her calm, loving voice, the one Alice had silenced forever, spoke from the sunny kitchen of his mind. She was making chocolate chip cookies again, his favorite, and a big pitcher of milk was already on the table. She had her back to him, but turned when he entered the room. Jason, you had the right idea. Go to the house where my killer hid, and where she sought to soothe her guilt.

She told him it had long since vanished from the radar screens of the barely competent local authorities, and that it would serve him better than it had Alice Hardy.

Jason went back into the house quietly, not telling his mother about the Chris Higgins decision. She would learn soon enough, and time was short. He climbed the stairs quickly, producing the same pocket knife he'd used to slice her sweater. Chris was still just where he had left her, dozing beneath the ropes.

When he entered the room she snapped awake instantly, noticing the knife. Oh God, had the time finally come? she thought to herself then, unable to do anything but watch as the creature swiftly approached her, knife leading the way. Again she stared him down, rock solid determined to face death like a man. Like Rick.

And again, just as before, she was stunned to see him not puncture her soft, tender flesh but slice the ropes bonding her hands to the bed. She was amazed to find herself free, although not as stunned that he wasn't making another move towards her with the knife. He still gripped it in his hand warily, however, so she did not make a move.

She sat on the bed wondering exactly what he was intending to do when to her surprise he took her by the arm and tugged her over to her dresser.

Chris was flabbergasted by this newest development but she gamely retrieved fresh clothes and gave him a hard look. When he failed to get the hint, she sighed and turned her back to him and shrugged off the remains of her bloody, torn sweater and quickly wriggled into a clean one. When she was finished, to her further surprise he reached into the drawer and took several more items of clothing. Looking around, his eye settled on a small duffle bag. Satisfied with it, he shoved the clothes into it and zipped it up quickly. He pushed it into her arms, and took her by the shoulder and led her out of the room.

The idea of making a bolt for it still appealed to her, but realistically it would be suicide. His grip on her shoulder was vice like, and she knew he could squeeze even harder if he wished to. No, right now wasn't the time. Her brain buzzed as he led her past the bathroom. "Wait," She said, digging her heels in. "I need something from here."

He hesitated for a moment, then allowed her to enter the room. She reached into the medicine cabinet for a small white makeup bag. She unzipped the duffle bag and pushed it in with the clothes, and then she allowed him to escort her from the house.

Jason had no idea what was in the small bag, but from what he knew of girls they tended to be more fussy about their dress and grooming. That was why he had loaded the bag with her clothes instead of resorting to clothes line robbing down the road. He hadn't thought that she might want anything else, but after all, what did he really know about what girls took along when they traveled.

While Chris didn't really care about her makeup, especially at a time like this, she DID care about the book of matches that she used to soften her eye liner that lay deep within her travel bag. This monster obviously intended to travel with her, and she had a sneaking suspicion she knew where they were headed

That Shack. That nightmarish hovel she still visited in her deepest, darkest dreams.

After all, where else would this killer call home?

He was taking her back to his shack once again, although this time when she ran out of that decrepit falling down shanty it would be in flames behind her, eradicating every trace of its horrific existence, along with the hulking thing that had settled his iron grip upon her upper arm. Yes, she would burn the shack while he was at rest (surely he must rest ) and leave it a smoldering heap behind her. Then, and only then could she finally be free.

She couldn't believe how beautiful the day was. It didn't seem right. The weather should accurately reflect the horror of what had happened here, the sky clogged with soot colored clouds, gusts of wind battering the trees the way they had just last night, and hot rain falling to wash away all the blood. Instead there were blue skies and a gentle stillness that was draped over the land like a sheet made of lace on a newborn baby. He led her past the barn then, and through the open doors she she could still see the pool of blood on the hay where this beast had chopped that strange man to pieces as she watched. She found herself looking closer, staring harder, trying to make out her poor, dear friends in there, sliced to ribbons and hidden away as though they were nothing more than broken musical instruments whose lyrics were now hoarse death rattles.

She resisted him then, forcing them to a stop. Damn it all to hell if she was just going to let him drag her past this shrine, this now holy place where the dead grew clammy and fetid in an atmosphere of old leather and horse stink. The insults to them just kept coming, even in death. They deserved better than to be left like trash in a goddamn barn. The least she could do was risk getting jabbed by that pocket knife or picked up and slung over his shoulders by crossing herself and saying a silent prayer.

Debbie especially deserved that - at least I hurt him with that knife, Debs, I stuck him in the kneecap and he still isn't walking right. Debbie was lying in that barn dressed only in a flimsy bathrobe, a grapefruit sized hole in her neck and...oh God-

oh God! Her sudden remembrance of something left her weak in the knees.

Debbie, whom she sometimes tutored in Algebra back at their college campus, Debbie had been pregnant. This monster had killed her and her unborn child.

Chris started to shake then, and the creature regarded her with curiosity. After all, his need to murder everything in sight was all that mattered. Her need to try and give her butchered friends a proper memorial service was but a firefly, bopping him in his bald, bulging head while he tried to smuggle his new little girlfriend away from the scene of his many awful crimes.

Outraged, Chris took advantage of his confusion by jerking out of his grasp and sprinting towards the barn. Yes, she had to at least say a prayer for them all, had to give them the respect that they deserved. She threw herself upon her knees at the gory haystack, and quickly crossed herself, muttering snatches of prayer for them all. He was coming now, she could hear the loud thud of his boots against the ground. Chris didn't care, she would finish this disjointed eulogy for her slain friends, no matter what he did. She felt a rough hand on her arms, jerking her upwards to her feet, and she swung a leg out connecting with his injured knee.

And nothing. Chris was shocked, she swore he had been limping earlier in the day, and now the wound didn't seem to faze him in the least. Instead he swatted her leg away as if it were an annoying mosquito and drug her from the barn, from her friends. There was no time for this, and this silly girl didn't seem to understand the urgency of the situation. So he swung her up and over his shoulder and proceeded to carry her away from the Higgin's property, and into the woods. She hung there limply, not bothering to scream or pound her fists against his back. Her thoughts kept going back to the tiny book of matches secreted in her travel bag, and how lovely the flames would be soon.

She would name the blaze Bonfire of the Wild Bunch, in honor of Debs and Andy, and her sweetheart farm boy Rick, who really should have pursued Mary Jo Conrad and left her to do battle with this backwoods demon. The only way to fight something like this was to have an in, or a quality that captivated the beast long enough for some damage to be done. And as she let him carry her deeper and deeper into the woods, she knew that her in was a face and figure that appealed to him in a way all the other girls had not.

That would allow her to spread fire upon his unholy sanctuary, and render it a pile of ash.

Jason was tromping on with thoughts of the girl's display still fresh on his mind.

What had she been doing? Whatever it was, it struck a chord in him unlike anything since his mother's death. Her murder, mother was murdered by Icepick Alice, and don't you forget that this one is cut from the exact same cloth. Still, her impromptu ceremony back at the barn was familiar, and reminded him of how he marked his mother's birthday, or the date of her murder.

Kneeling, bowing the head, making gestures while the face conveyed the words that were being spoken inside the mind.

Chris Higgins was more like him than she wanted to believe, and the thought gave him equal parts sadistic pleasure as well as revulsion. He got as far as a small creek that fed the cove at Higgins Haven before he stopped, tired of the girl's silent weight. He knelt himself, allowing her to roll off his shoulder and onto the ground. The girl, hands still loosely bound by the hanging rope, settled onto her back and regarded him with those eyes that could no longer shine bright with terror. It seemed she had reached her saturation point with him, and now all that was left to show was her own curiosity. While he had been busy trying to get into her head, she was doing the same. Did she really believe she could figure him out? She didn't even know the backstory. He wanted to assault her not with blades or bare hands but news clippings then,

prove to her just how much worse his pain was than hers. She had lost only callous and shallow acquaintances, while he had been robbed of the only thing that really mattered in this world: his mother.

Chris was at a loss for words for the moment, rendering her just as dumb as this hulking creature. She just lay there on the ground, almost cringing under the fierce scrutiny of that one eye. He hauled her back up to her feet and forced her to trudge on, but unanswered questions still swirled about her brain. He led her through hill and dale, always silent. In fact, when had he ever spoken to her? The closest thing she had ever heard him utter that even resembled any semblance of speech had been when she had plunged the kitchen knife into his hand.

"Where are we going?" she finally managed, feeling foolish for even expecting an answer. He stopped in his tracks, and turned back to face her. Again, the evil eye. Then again, maybe not. Her gaze could no sooner pierce the barrier of that white death mask any more than she could jump from the rooftop of their old red barn that was now miles behind them and hope to fly. He could be leering at her again, just like back at Higgins Haven. A cheshire cat grin of what he had in store for her at whatever destination he had in mind, if there was one. Still, she didn't think that perverted glee was on his face just then. He didn't need to drag her anywhere to have his way with her. The deserted farmhouse where she'd just spent the better part of a day tied to her own bed had been the perfect place for a rape. And a murder. But he hadn't done anything but grope her and storm off like a hulking, sulking child. So dwelling on it now, the look on his face was probably anger, maybe even at himself. He'd obviously had no problem tearing out Shelly's throat like a hyena with a baby doe, or stabbing dear, sweet Debbie with that carving knife - how's your hand, by the way, big guy? - or crushing Rick's head like a grapefruit, so what made her so unkillable? What made it so hard for him to just raise his arm and cleave her out of existence? It must be a mystery to him as well, otherwise her bedroom wall would not have a fist sized hole in it.

Careful Chris, a voice in her mind said then. Don't try unlocking the secrets of what's in that man's head. You won't like what you find. Quietly agreeing with the voice and dropping her attempt at using psychology on her abductor, Chris lowered herself to a sitting position on a rock and massaged one of her calves. He just stood there, staring, sometimes twisting his head in the direction of a falling tree branch, or scurrying woodland creature. Eventually he looked back down at her.

"I need to rest. My feet hurt." His fingers twitched a bit, and he clasped his hands together in an odd fashion, obviously not used to doing anything with them but slicing someone. He took a step back, then another, as if to say he approved. He leaned on a tree, hands still writhing. It was then that she noticed the back of his left hand, the one she had stabbed earlier. Incredibly, it was undamaged. She knew he had washed his hands back at Higgins Haven, for she had smelled the soap and seen the clean nails when he assaulted her on the bed. But back then, there had been an angry wound in the shape of a half moon, almost like that lopsided grin he'd flashed her in the barn. Now, nothing. It had healed completely. Chris looked up at him as new fear washed over her. What exactly was she dealing with here?

Suddenly he seemed to realize what she was looking at and he rushed forward, dragging her off the rock and back through the woods. He led her along a series of old trails,occasionally veering from the paths to traipse through the trees until joining another trail. Chris's feet began to protest, her soles searing.

She felt blisters rising up on one of her little toes. She almost giggled when she thought that any blisters he might have wouldn't matter to him, anyway. They'd just heal in a matter of hours, anyway.

Jason wasn't sure he knew what to think of his vanished wound, and he was convinced Chris Higgins couldn't make heads or tails of it, but she had at least noticed that something was wrong with him - that is, beyond the disfigured features and lack of voice. There should be a scar and instead, his hand looked the way he wished his face did: smooth and perfect. Even his leg was healed, for he had seen the proof when showering in the Higgins' bathroom. His childhood injuries had always been fleeting and short lived, but nothing like this. He shouldn't be shaking off this limp for a good few weeks, not after mere hours. And truth be told, it didn't really bother him much - indeed, it was a mark in the positive column, albeit an unnatural one. But the fact that it did bother Chris, one of the Normals, made phantom hair stand up on the back of his bald head and neck. Yet another way he was different than her, beneath her despite his healing factor making him a superman of sorts, just like the comic book weakling who stepped out of that phone booth with the power to leap tall buildings, and with flesh made of iron.

Chris stumbled over the uneven ground as he drug her alongside him, still unable to wipe the image of his hand from her mind. While she held out hope that perhaps it was a trick of the light, or her imagination, she knew what she had seen, and frighteningly, he seemed to know as well. That was why he had tugged her up from her resting place despite the fact she was no where near gaining a second wind. She also noticed he no longer was limping from the knife wound, in fact he was much steadier on his feet right now than she was. And then her heart began to sink. If he could shrug off these wounds so easily, then what chance did she really have?


	8. Chapter 8

Didn't that just clinch it? No matter how much strength and anger she summoned through thoughts of Debbie's gravestone colored face appearing as she parted those shirts in the upstairs closet, her body rigid as she fell to the floor like a bundle of lumber, she could never hope to hurt him badly enough to win. No matter how many thoughts of Rick lying there with this monster's finger dents in his temples, like he was nothing more than a piece of rejected fruit from the supermarket, she could never achieve the victory needed to end the nightmare.

"What are you?' She blurted, the words dropping from her lips before she could even heed the small, still voice within that had cautioned against this very thing. He ignored her and continued to pull her along, and once again she found herself digging her heels into the earth, refusing to budge. Let him sling her over his shoulder again and carry her, she didn't care and since it was becoming more and more obvious he didn't intend to either kill or release her, truthfully her aching feet would enjoy the break. That inner voice was protesting again, warning her not to probe further, but she stood her ground. "What are you?"

Stupid, stupid stupid. Her mind railed Let it go, Chris. What did she expect him to say? It was obvious by now that he couldn't or wouldn't speak, so her question was moot. But she she couldn't let it go. he was about to ask once again when he she heard the snapping of twigs and what sounded like voices shrouded in heavy static.

Jason was not prepared to stop again, especially not to wordlessly lean against a tree or maybe fetch some fresh, cool water for Princess Chris, who had no problem insulting and demanding answers from a man who could break her over his knee like a dry tree branch. He had a plan, damn it, but before the fruits of his labor in the form of Alice's two story clapboard could appear on the silver platter, they had to dart to another corner of the woods just to make sure the men with guns were foiled.

The last thing he needed was for them to be settled in at the scene of his first execution - and what a noble avenging it had been, dagger sharp pick into the meat of a brain good for nothing but awful paintings and MOTHER KILLING - and suddenly have police appear on the front porch just as he secured Chris to yet another bed frame.

Another of his old haunts, a summer home frequented sporadically by an older, retired couple and sometimes their spinster - lucky for her - daughter, was their immediate destination, a pit stop of sorts to throw the hunters off of the trail. Once they left their scent on the property for the dogs to feast on, it would be time for wading along the nearby creek to wash said scent from them.

Then and only then could they approach his home away from home, his second shrine, the former home of Alice Hardy. But the twigs and the static set off every alarm bell he had, and running on pure instinct leftover from countless hunting trips of his own - animals for dinner and skinny-dippers for mother - Jason pulled Chris into a crouching position by the crumbling remnants of an old stone wall that had once belonged to a building long gone. Maybe it had been a church from the days of witchcraft, where the people prayed for salvation from the supernatural specters of the night

Jason used his free hand to run his fingertips over the stones, glad that the church where sinners had begged to be saved had not survived. It was the so called witches with their enchanting potions who were the true angels, like his mother Pamela. She had given that dreaded lake a dose of potion to keep the evil doers away, and used her raging fires to make sure no one returned. And instead of being hailed as a saint within the walls of a holy place, her spirit was forever on the outside looking in, or hiding in the depths. Campfire tales were told of the witch of Crystal Lake, and now her deformed son, bearer of a new blade.

Even now, his mother was lying in her bed of graveyard silt at the bottom of the lake, hands that had once stroked his bald, misshapen head with such love and tenderness clasped across her waterlogged chest, while her son flattened himself against a wall whose stone still reverberated with the furious chanting of tie her down! Light the pyre! These woods were heavy with death. He thought these things as he held Chris close to him by that wall, as more branches snapped and cracked. If whoever this was had the misfortune of being alone, then he would move quickly, darting forward like a shambling dancer who had odd grace. He wouldn't even need to let go of Chris. She would be swept along with him as he swooped down on whoever this was. He only hoped it wasn't a posse. What could he do then? It had been the sounds of a posse that had echoed in his ears the night he dragged this girl back to his shack in the woods, a group of people led by Papa Bear Higgins, their pitchforks and shotguns leading the way.

Well, if it was a posse, then so be it. He would slay as many of them as he could before they brought him down. He would be a slab of juggernaut in the flesh, killing the true heretics on the grounds of this old church. He would jab hooked fingers into eye sockets and bash skulls against trees. And when his killer made the fatal stab, or fired the deadly shot, the cooling clay of his brain would know he had done his best to fulfill the Voorhees legacy. Slowly, carefully, he eased the knife out of his pants pocket.

He could make out a figure in the trees, coming closer. The man wore light blue pants and a jacket the color of blue midnight. The telltale patch on each shoulder told the whole story. This man was a cop, just like the one who had dared desecrate his mother's shrine. Jason only wished he had another hammer. Sinking the claw into his skull had been a lovely feeling. It felt to him like pulling satin down the length of creamy thighs must feel to normal men. They had a bit of cover from the wall, but there was no way to keep on his intended path without alerting the lawman. He was too close. It was time for -

A shriek that shook the stones of the wall tore itself from Chris Higgins' throat then, slicing through the late afternoon stillness like a blade.

Sheriff Jeff Summers had called the home of John and Marcy Higgins after discovering the bloodbath at the ranch called Higgins Haven. John Higgins had about as much to say as those Crazy Ralph-type drunks that ended up in his cells on sultry summer nights when they got too frisky with the server girls at the Crystal Diner, mainly the occasional mumble of she's tied to that place, still wants a Chestnut Palomino. And if John Higgins was like barb-wired Ralph, currently at the Wessex County Morgue along with all of those poor kids butchered by their latest killer, then Marcy Higgins was like the Sheriff himself, aggressive in her answers, questions and diatribes. It was clear she had John-Ralph's basket in her purse, and if he wasn't in the middle of a surreal nightmare that would scare the shit out of Francis Bacon himself - and how could anyone deny the Figure With Meat vibe coming from that bisected boy upstairs? - Summers would feel embarrassed for the man.

But he didn't have time to be embarrassed for a man overshadowed by his more forceful wife, because yet again Crystal Lake had a killer on the loose. Just like in the 50s, when someone had disemboweled a young camp counselor and slit the throat of his pretty girlfriend. That someone turned out to be Pamela Voorhees, whose son Jason had drowned there the year before, but Pamela had been able to contain her madness like a rabid dog locked in a cage once the neighbor's poodles had been devoured. What had opened the cage was local resident Steve Christy, who as a boy had even known little Jason at that old camp his father ran. Christy Jr. attempted to follow in Sr.'s footsteps and reopen the place, though why Summers had no idea. Was that the only family business, running a summer camp? And if so, did that camp have to be at the site of three grisly deaths? It was odd his prejudice against the area he served as Sheriff, but Summers did love these woods. They were usually bright with summer sunshine and emerald thickets that the kids streaked through on their way to a heavenly lake.

Now they were becoming known for stabbings and bodies dangling from the damn trees like gory Christmas ornaments hung by someone who had those old Bacon paintings on a repeating loop in their brain. That someone this time was a mystery, because Pamela Voorhees was long dead. Like a person destined to go down as a campfire tale, her head had been cut off by a girl who would have been her final victim - at least of that particular day. Funny thing was her head had disappeared sometime before they got there, probably made of with by a starving animal. It was not a pretty thought, that head ending up in a burrow somewhere, but then again, the bitch deserved it. She had slaughtered kids not even born yet when her son had drowned.

But all of that was history, not quite ancient history yet, and now it never would be. Now, he had the Packanack Counselor Training Center murders to deal with. He also had the Higgins Haven Massacre. Two spree killings in as many days, with dozens of bodies tucked away in cabins, bedrooms and dangling from the very trees. The mystery of Pamela's head had been solved, however. An animal of a different kind had taken it, squirreled it away in a fetid shack hidden deep within the woods near the camp. In that shack they had been directed to by sweet, shivering Ginny Field, the body of one of his officers lay mutilated, along with another pretty girl counselor and a mummified body in a bathrobe. Though they were still identifying her, he had the strange feeling she might just turn out to be one Alice Hardy, killer of the mother from hell.

Just like another girl in a bathrobe, this one back at that bloody lodge, a girl who had been pregnant. For Christ's sake, their new monster had killed a pregnant college girl. Who could it be? The campfire folks screamed Jason Voorhees at every possible opportunity, and while some of the pieces to this nasty puzzle seemed to have his name on them, it was impossible. Forget the drowning in this theory. Disappeared at age eleven, a boy who wouldn't even been in junior high yet if he had been enrolled in a school in the first place, Jason Voorhees had been deformed, mentally retarded and nearly mute. Yet this child, as destined to be a campfire tale as his mother, was supposed to be behind all of this mess?

No, they had a copycat killer, only this time he wasn't copying the killer but the son. In any event, Marcy Higgins, vile woman that she was, had a gem to offer. Her daughter may be helping him. You must understand that I love her dearly, but she was always an excitable girl prone to mood swings, especially since-

Since what, Marcy? had been his question.

Since that night.

What night, Marcy?

The night she hid in the woods, and we found her beside a creek, half out of her mind, washing her face and babbling about a hulking man and his little friend the severed head.

According to Marcy Higgins, Chris had described the man as having severe facial deformities. And the wind whispered the name Jason Voorhees once more. Mrs. Higgins seemed to think Stockholm Syndrome, and Sheriff Summers was definitely of the opinion that it could happen...but... was it really plausible that Chris Higgins, star student at her college and former prom queen, would somehow become tangled up with the long lost Jason Voorhees and emerge his devoted girlfriend, or partner in crime, or...

What, Sheriff? He scowled at himself then, frustrated at his inability to prevent these new atrocities. Whoever was cutting a path through the residents of this community, he would find them and deal with them accordingly. That's why he was following up on a special lead right now.

Whoever this monster was, they had been living in these woods unnoticed for at least five years. They had been responsible for clothesline thefts and things being snatched from various summer homes and cabins. One summer home was that of the McCready family, an older, retired couple and their daughter, who were currently out of town.

Thank God for small favors, he thought with more than a touch of bitterness. At least the McCreadys were not on the victim list that grew ever longer by the hour. There were other seasonal homes in the area, but right now theirs was closest. He left the tainted Higgins Haven in a cloud of dust and headed towards it as a campfire's flames flickered in his mind and young faces hovered in the darkness, soaking up the legend of Jason Voorhees. He truly hoped that if he came across the killer in these woods, it was not Jason Voorhees. If it was, then anything was possible. All those old ghost stories and urban legends used as a reason to spook pretty young prom date kittens into cuddling closer suddenly became highly probable.

Jesus! Every goblin from the man with the hook to the freak under the bed whose hand licking tricks the girl into thinking it's her dog until she sees the message on the mirror in lipstick, humans can lick, too. The Headless Horseman clopping after you fast as that cannonball that sheared off his head. And hell, why stop there? What about fairy tales? The witch from Hansel and Gretel somehow magically escaped the oven and now stalks the streets of your hometown. The Wendigo of the woods is real, and he'll follow you through the forest and drive you mad, whispering to you that it's not wrong to think your tent-mate's leg looks better than a chicken drumstick, finally shrieking your name before dragging you up into the treetops, where the your feet burn off trying to keep up with his insane pace.

You've got to calm down, he told himself. Mind your own feet as you race the devil.

It can't be Jason Voorhees. Whoever it is has just heard one too many campfire tales. Soon, you'll meet him, and the conversation that follows will be punctuated with a bullet. End of tale.


	9. Chapter 9

As Sheriff Summers sped out to the McCready's summer cabin, he eyed the shotgun on the passenger seat. If his .357 wasn't enough for the Wendigo of Crystal Lake, that shotgun would act as the Horseman's cursed cannonball, tearing away the hateful, disfigured face that Chris Higgins talked about.

Whether real or a mask.

He whipped the cruiser down a dirt road, the blazing late afternoon sun almost blinding him, as he could faintly make out the silhouette of the empty summer home greeting him at the end of the rough road. The car bounced over the ruts in the road like a ship traversing choppy waters, leaving Summers to curse the shoddy suspension. Wessex county sorely needed to invest in new cruisers, among other things. Screeching to a halt in the McCready's drive, he reached over into the passenger's seat and gripped the shotgun close. From what he could see, the cabin appeared to be vacant, with no sign of life within. He stepped out of the cruiser, eyes darting about expectantly.

Summers approached the cabin, hand firmly on his gun as he reached into the mailbox for the spare key he knew to be there. Those McCreadys had never been ones to put safety before convenience, and despite several warnings issued by well meaning friends, and even Summers himself, they continued to leave their spare key in the mailbox, just as they had done from day one. No talk of marauding sex offenders or home invasion horror stories seemed to sway them. Well, at least the key would make it easier to search the cabin, and rule out any possibility of an unsavory character lurking within.

The old door's hinges squealed in protest as he unlocked and opened the cabin door. The cabin was utterly quiet and still, and Summers could see from the fine layer of dust coating the furniture and wooden floors that the McCreadys, and anybody else for that matter had not been inside for some time.

He was just about to venture within and confirm his suspicion when he heard the faint voice of a woman.

Summers froze, trying to pinpoint the direction, when he heard it again. She certainly wasn't within the cabin, no this voice seemed to carry from the thick woods surrounding the structure.

He shut the door quietly, ears straining to hear any further speech, but only the primeval sounds of the woods greeted him. Summers gripped the shotgun tighter as he made his way into the thick tree line, eyes peeled for any sign of movement. The voice had been unmistakably feminine, and it had sounded almost angry. Thoughts of Chris Higgins flooded his head, and again he pondered the possibility of this girl being involved in the bloody madness of the past few days. Of course, it was putting the cart ahead of the horse to assume it was she that waited within these woods, but he could not help but believe it to be so. Marcy's words came back to him ominously, and Summers wondered how right Marcy might prove to be.

The Sheriff navigated his way through the trees, drawing close to the crumbling remains of what had been an old church. He could see it there in the distance, looking quite eerie in the blaze of the setting sun. Red rays stained the grey stone, making it seem to be almost awash in blood. Thoughts of boogey men and ancient evil began to dance in his head, whispering tales of witchcraft and bloodshed.

And then, a piercing shriek drew him out of his reverie, and Summers found himself staring at Chris Higgins, who appeared to have been to hell and back

She popped up like a tangle-haired jack in the box from her hiding place behind the wall, mouth open like a fish stolen from the water and gasping for breath. Summers recognized her instantly from the photos at Higgins Haven, only never with this expression on her pretty face. She attempted to haul herself over the wall with trembling hands, and he could see that her knuckles were scraped and bleeding. He rushed forward to meet her.

"He's here, he's here," she babbled, landing on her butt once she was free of the wall.

Summers helped her to stand, temporarily leaning the shotgun against the stones. She was gesturing to the other side of the wall where she had been crouching, pointing with a finger that spasmed up and down like the needle on a seismograph.

"Who's here, Chris?" he asked, peering over the chest high wall. He saw nothing at the same moment she hissed, "Him! Don't know his name! HIM!" Summers looked up and down the length of the wall, which stretched a few dozen feet in both directions. There was no one to be seen. Suddenly Chris pulled away from him and snatched up the shotgun, trying to back away with it. He was a quick old boy, though, and grabbed the barrel with an iron grip, his wedding ring smacking the metal. They struggled for a few brief seconds, his walkie talkie flying from his belt at one point and cracking off the stone wall. She soon lost the battle, going down on her butt once again as he towered over her.

"Chris Higgins," he said, producing a pair of handcuffs from his belt, "I am placing you under arrest at this moment in time, for possible involvement in the Higgins Haven massacre."

He hauled her up a second time as she struggled against him.

"It's not me, it's him! The man from that night two years ago! The man who came back to get me again!"

"Would that be your fabled Jason Voorhees?" he said angrily. It was the first time she had heard that name, though it rang a few distant bells. Hadn't her parents brought that name up once or twice over the years? Hadn't he lived in Crystal Lake long ago?

"I told you I don't know his name, but he killed my friends!" she shouted. "He threw Rick through the window and killed Debbie, oh she was pregnant and he stabbed her, put her in the closet behind my mother's old drapes-"

"I don't know what the hell is going on here," he fumed, clasping one of the handcuffs on her wrist, "but you better believe I'm going to find out." He snapped the other cuff on his own wrist just so he could get at his radio and call this in. "Ten four this is Sheriff Summers, anyone copy?" The walkie simply crackled with mocking static, making fun of him for letting a civilian, a young girl at that, get hold of his weapon and damage his communication with his boys to boot."This is the Sheriff," he said again. "I'm at the old stone wall about a half mile from the McCready place." Again, infuriating static. There wasn't even a garbled voice in reply. "Lovely," he spat, jamming it back onto his belt. "I'd like to thank you for that, Miss Higgins. You're a wonderful girl to spend the afternoon with."

"Sheriff, we have to get back to your car so you can tell them that it's Jason Voorhees-"

"Oh, we're going back to the car," he said, fumbling for the handcuff key. "So I can put you in the back and take you down to the station. Once we're there, you're going to tell me exactly what happened these past few days, and exactly where The Campfire Tale shuffled himself off to, and exactly where The Campfire Tale, whoever he is, shuffled himself off to."

He had time to see her eyes go wide as dinner plates as she looked at something over his shoulder. He spun around, dropping the handcuff keys and swinging the shotgun in that direction. There was a rustling of leaves as something exploded out of the branches of a nearby tree, a horrifically deformed hulk of a man with a savage sneer painted on his twisted lips. Summers screamed as the thing - that was no mask! - crashed into him like a freight train, torn leaves and twigs flying.

Chris screeched like a banshee, her wrist searing with pain as she fell to the ground with Summers. The shotgun clattered out of the lawman's grasp, landing in a pile of brush out of his reach. Sheriff Summers bucked under Jason's crushing weight, grasping for the firearm in vain, however his struggles proved fruitless as there was no way he could hope to scuttle out from under that beast of a man, especially not with Chris weighing him down like a ball and chain.

"No, goddammit no!" Chris wailed, trying to wrench herself free from the cuff clasped about her right wrist as Jason and the Sheriff struggled on the forest floor. Her abused wrist bloomed red like a field of poppies, the cuffs digging into her flesh like a band saw. Still she struggled, only to fall as short of her goal as Sheriff Summers, as Jason took a handful of the man's jacket and hauled him cursing to his feet and over to the wall, dragging Chris behind him like a hooked fish.

Chris clawed at the soft dirt below her, trying to dig her heels into the ground and slow the behemoth down, but an especially sharp twang of pain caused her to yelp and give up her ground as Jason wrapped a massive hand around the Sheriff's throat and lifted him high. She cried out as Jason slammed the officer's head into that ancient wall, showering her in a spurt of blood and brain matter as the lawman's head burst open like an over ripe melon.

Jason dropped the man like a sack of potatoes and turned to glower at Chris. She tried desperately to scoot away from him, but the hundred and eighty odd pounds of deceased Sheriff tethered to her prevented her from making any headway. Jason burned a hole into Chris with his good eye, then looked down at the lawman who lay like a deflated lake raft at his feet. One of his eyes was bulging out of its socket from the impact of his skull with the wall.

Angry at the sudden and unexpected similarity to him, he sent a short kick into his face that knocked his head in a different direction. Chris flinched and began to mewl. He marched over to the tree he had been hiding in and retrieved the hockey mask that was dangling from a crooked branch. It had an almost supernatural glow in fiery red light of the dying sunset. He turned to look at Chris once more before slipping it back on; did she even comprehend what he had just done for her? He could have stayed in the tree, been quiet as a church mouse until the shotgun toting punk bundled her into the car and sped back to the police station. Then he could have raided the McCready place for supplies before heading out to Alice's house.

But instead he had stripped off the mask which had made him feel disturbingly like no-panties-beneath-the-sweatpants Terri, naked and vulnerable. He had used his hated face as a weapon and launched himself at the sheriff the way a rock taunted raven swept down on its tormentors. The man had been clutching a shotgun, and could have at least taken a chunk out of him. So now she was spared the agony of Them grilling her about his whereabouts when they should be waiting on her hand and foot at the hospital, bringing her treats from the kitchen to soothe her the way his mother always did for hi-

because she's your sweetheart, isn't that right, Jason? My dear, sweet Jason?

He felt hot blush creep into his cheeks then, and slipped the mask back on. Stupid little spoiled bitch of a princess. What he should do was go over and give her a good kick in the ass. But yet again, just like back at Higgins Haven, he was going to spare her. Mother was right. It was all because she was his sweetheart. His little afraid-to-jump-down-from-the-pedestal-because-I'll-break-a-nail princess, who looked so good in those designer jeans that he couldn't bring himself to kick her in the ass.

He did not find it utterly surprising that she had been so quick to cry out for help when confronted with a means of possible escape, and truthfully he could not blame her but damn her for doing that! She stared up at him with wide, frightened eyes, as if she could sense the struggle within him to send her to the same messy end as Summers.

For a brief moment his hands itched to wrap around her slender throat and squeeze until her face went as blue as the water of the lake, and he might have well followed through on this impulse until Mother's voice rang in his head like the tolling of a church bell. "You wanted her, despite my warnings, Jason. Yes, she's no different from any of those filthy whores, but you wanted her. Will you turn down Mother's gift?" Her words gave him pause, the truth of her statement piercing him within. He had wanted her, and even after her actions he still felt a stirring somewhere deep inside. While he'd been foolishly optimistic to think that she might ever warm to him, the fact of the matter was that he'd chose to drag her along instead of leaving her tethered to her bed back at the Haven, knowing full well that she had not come along of her own free will.

And so he turned his back on her to search the grass for the key that had fallen from the lawman's fingers. He had no interest in dragging the dead Sheriff through the woods, and while he could easily free her from her cumbersome burden with a stroke of his knife, but using the key would prove to be less effort and probably less traumatic to Chris, for whatever that was worth. He found the key at the base of a large oak tree near the wall, and with it in hand he approached the shuddering girl.

Sliding the key into the lock, they were both rewarded for enduring such a miserable day by a table scraps click. It was definitely breadcrumbs compared to the porterhouse steak that was the safe haven of Alice's house, but it would do for now. He gripped the empty cuff in his hand as she wriggled free of it, scooting backwards on the ground while she massaged her traumatized wrist. Jason dropped the cuff and simply stood there, half expecting her to up and bolt. If she did, so be it. Maybe he would just let her go. He was still tired from their game of cat and mouse in the barn.

But Chris did not flee. She sat there fretting about her wrist while he was still feeling the effects of when she stabbed him in the hand and knee, along with all the other injuries he had suffered back at the summer home. Hadn't one of them involved a log to the back of his head? Then later a shovel? He had to hand it to her. The wonderful bitch knew how to swing like Babe Ruth.

But even as his shocking ability to make light of the situation was playing on one level, on another there was a roiling sea of prehistoric monsters and the Tsunami waves born from the space rock that had killed them. She'd better not hurt him again. Not after this. The two of them regarded each other for a moment longer, until Jason broke the strange stillness that sometimes followed a killing by offering her his hand.

Slowly, although it was shaking somewhat, she took it.


	10. Chapter 10

Chris's head swam with a plethora of conflicting emotion as she took his hand, allowing him to lift her to her feet. In a strange way, she had no choice but to give him her hand. He could have abandoned her here to take the heat for the murders, he could have remained hidden in the tree-line and left her to be taken away to the county jail, and then possibly to prison or a sanitarium. However, he had not, even after she had blown their cover. No, he had charged the Sheriff like a bull, and killed the man, and all for her.

The thought struck her like a ton of bricks. He had done it for her, the very girl who's shrill screams had put them in the predicament in the first place. Chris could not fathom why this man -

Jason Voorhees

had decided to not only slay the man who intended to drag her away screaming in handcuffs, but had afterwards spared her life, and had not put a hand on her other than to help her to her feet. However, the brief look he'd shot her prior to offering his hand was not lost on her, she understood that she had pushed the envelope far enough, and to attempt to push further would likely not be met with mercy. Still shaken by both her earlier trial and the thoughts currently assailing her, she did not jerk her hand back immediately. Instead she merely stared in wonder at her tiny hand wrapped in this juggernaut's massive paw, as the wheels in her head kept turning.

It was clear that he had given her an opportunity to run, but she had not taken it, despite her earlier eagerness for escape. No, as the gravity of what he had just done for her sunk in, she realized she had no choice but to stay with him. The police would be looking for them both, well, mainly her, from the way the Sheriff had talked. He didn't believe her frantic babbling about the man from two years ago returning, and it began to dawn on her that any officer would meet her story with similar disbelief and scorn. Jason Voorhees was nothing more than an urban legend to these men of the law, and to most everyone in the area that had not had the misfortune to meet him. So running away was not an option, knowing that she was considered a prime suspect in the murder of her friends.

But there was another aspect to her unwillingness to run just now. Perhaps it was tiny, and buried under more logical reasons to not bolt, she could not deny it was there. She had also stayed out of a sense of gratitude, as incomprehensible and sick as it might sound. Yes, this behemoth had brutally murdered her friends, some before her very eyes, but he had also saved her back there. He could have killed her any time before now in an equally brutal fashion however he had not, not even when she had teased and taunted him, or just now after she had betrayed their hiding spot.

There was also -

and she blushed to think about the memory which stirred up even more confusion within her -

the fact that he could have done whatever he wanted to her while she had been tied to that bed, but he had settled for a quick grope and nothing more, even though she knew he was capable of more. Her jab at the effectiveness of his plumbing had been only been an attempt to insult and infuriate him, no, she somehow knew that had he really wanted to he could have torn her clothing off and -

and what, Chris?

She shoved the thought deeper, and he let go of her hand. Taking her injured wrist in hand, she looked up at her captor, and uttered two quiet words.

"Thank you."

At the McCready house, the two of them gathered supplies for the coming trip. It was obvious to her from the moment they set foot in the cabin that Jason didn't intend for them to stay there. Chris simply followed him through the back door and into the dusty home quietly, watching as he went straight to the pantry, snatching up the tablecloth from the dining room table without so much as breaking stride. As he loaded it up with food and other odds and ends, she wandered to the living room and looked out the front window. There in the driveway sat Sheriff Summers' police cruiser, cloaked in the blue shadows of twilight. She thought of him laying out there in the woods, his brains splattered on the old stone wall, and shuddered.

Just like Rick's brains oozing from his ruined head as he lay on the floor of the lodge.

Where were they going to go? No place in Crystal Lake was safe, and it was only a matter of time before one of Summers' deputies came looking for him. They would find the car, then his body, and intensify the search. And if he had like minded deputies who believed she was part of the killing spree, or if that walkie talkie had picked up any of his words to her, they would be much more likely to use their own shotguns now that their commander was a victim.

Like it or not, she and Jason Voorhees were in this together, and their survival hinged on whatever hiding place lay lurking in his demented brain. If there was a hiding place. It was quite possible he intended to just have them climb trees the way he had to surprise the Sheriff. Or who knew? Maybe he intended to leave the area altogether, throw caution to the wind and strike out for parts unknown? She didn't figure that to be very likely, given the nature of his looks. No, they were going to stay put in these cursed woods, and either take shelter in another summer home or confront the police in a showdown that would have everyone far and wide speaking the name Jason Voorhees. She hoped to God the man didn't intend to take the latter option.

"Jason," she said suddenly, more from seeing his reflection in the window glass than any kind of psychic link. She turned to face him. He was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, holding a bulging makeshift bag that had once been the McCready's checkered tablecloth. In the other hand he held several pillowcases. These he held out for her to take, apparently intending that she pull her own weight and grab a few trinkets for their second road-trip.

Chris took the pillowcases, and looked around the kitchen for anything that might come in handy. Jason had taken the bulk of the canned goods, but had left a few, these she scooped into her own repurposed pillowcase. She searched through drawers, plucking a can opener and a few forks and spoons out to add to her own growing pile of supplies. Jason watched her appraisingly, she caught on quickly. Dragging the heavy pillowcase down the hall into the restroom, she ransacked the medicine cabinet for anything that seemed useful, snatching up ointments and bandages like they were going out of style. Where ever they were headed, she did not have Jason's supernatural ability to recover from injuries, so she made certain to be prepared for anything that might befall her in the woods or beyond. She added a few wrapped bars of soap to her bags before heading back down the hallway, where she paused only long enough to grab a couple of sheets from the linen closet, folding them into compact little squares to shove into her already strained pair of pillowcases.

Jason was there waiting for her in the kitchen, the tablecloth bundle thrown over his shoulder in the manner of Santa Claus bearing gifts for all good children. "Where are we going?" Chris spoke out of habit, still not entirely used to the man's silence. It would be a tough habit to break, the expectation of a reply to her words. She might as well be as mute as he was, for al it seemed to matter, for he did not speak and seemed unlikely to ever. Surely if he could, she would have already earned a hearty fuck you for her previous antics. He strode to the door carrying his heavy burden, before gesturing to the bag he had packed for her prior to leaving Higgin's Haven. Obviously it would be up to her to carry it now, along with her full pillowcases, for Jason's load required both hands. She shifted the gym bag onto her uninjured arm, and took the heavier pillowcase in her left hand, still favouring her injured right wrist.

Chris knew it was too much to hope for that they wouldn't have to travel far, for the prospect of carrying such heavy bags for a long distance did not appeal to her, but realistically the further they could get from the scene of Jason's latest murder, the better. So she merely grit her teeth and carried on at Jason's heels, her arms now hurting as much as her blistered feet. She had never been much of a hiker, and the last day had proven to be a very painful introduction to the activity for her. Of course, all of this endless walking did not seem to take a toll on the man plodding ahead of her. He was far more acclimated to moving through these woods than she or anyone else for that matter could possibly be.

So, of course it was to be expected that Chris would begin to lag behind after what seemed like hours of trudging along carrying heavy bags. She stopped to rest her feet, only to feel Jason's hand on her upper arm, pulling her up from her seat on the forest floor. "I just need a minute," she panted, even as he shook his head no and pulled her along. "I'm not used to this like you are, I have to rest." Her protest fell on deaf ears, as he continued dragging the stumbling girl along.

That was how they traveled for awhile, Jason leading Chris to - the slaughter? - whatever hideout he had, Chris wondering if maybe she shouldn't just offer to put on a leash to make it easier for her master. But as that kind of smart talk might only serve to further inflame the anger of a man who had just bashed the sheriff's brains in while she was handcuffed to him, she decided against it. The full moon's ghostly light shone down through the tree branches and played tricks. More than once Chris thought she saw things capering in the shadows, behind trees and further along the narrow creek they crossed.

She somehow stifled a crazy laugh - and yes, it would sure as hell sound crazy, the way she was feeling right now - at the sudden gratefulness she had that this slouch shouldered giant was with her.

For no matter what creatures of the night might be lurking about, eager to forgo the baking process and feast on the flesh of a girl lost out in the wilderness, none of them would try a goddamn thing with Jason Voorhees out front. In a land of demons, it was always best to travel with the top dog.

He allowed a pause in their nocturnal journey at that creek so that she could splash some water on her face, which only brought back vague memories of how she had been found by her parents that night two years ago. "Oh Chrissy," her mother had droned, hyping herself into phony hysterics. "What's happened to you?"

I'll tell you what happened, mother. I met a monster, and he took me back to his shack. How I escaped remains a mystery even to me, but I did, only to thumb my nose at fate, give the middle finger to fate by coming back to this awful place. Now all of my friends are dead, and this time there's no escape for me. So my monster and I are going to find a new shack, hopefully one with running water this time. Don't wait up for me, because just like that romantic night with Rick, I'll be awhile.

Shocked at her own bitterness, she sank to her knees and drank from the creek, slurping water like a woman who had just traversed a huge desert. All the while, Jason Voorhees watched, as silent as the oaks around him, as silent as the black shadow demons that sometimes peeked out from around his massive frame. At one point he seemed to sense them himself and turned, sending them scattering. He stood staring in the direction they were headed, and she knew his face was tense behind the mask.

No, he hadn't sensed any demons. He was hoping their hideout, wherever it may be, was not swarming with Summers' deputies, all aiming fully loaded shotguns. He looked back at her again, motioning her to finish up. She obeyed. Rejoining him, they set off again on their trek through the trees.

After another few minutes of walking, just as the thirst was again beginning to rear its ugly head, she saw a two story shape in the distance. As they got closer, she could make out a large Victorian clapboard with big pillars on the back that the place? It was definitely a step up from the quaint little McCready cabin. Somehow Jason had hit the big time.


End file.
